“You rarely keep secrets, certainly not from me. You’ve burdens of your own, a matter that needs?—”
“You refer to Miss Bourne’s sudden return.” Ten years spent praying for answers, and now he’d sooner see her crawl back beneath the stone.
Gentry’s gaze drifted to the woman lying still beneath the coverlet. “I mean you should examine why you feel compelled to take on Miss Woolf’s troubles.”
Gabriel could almost hear the unspoken concern beneath his friend’s calm tone. He knew what Gentry was thinking, that loneliness had driven him to take desperate measures. “My interest in Miss Woolf has nothing to do with my closest friends being married.”
“No? You spent three nights at Fortune’s Den last week.”
“And half the lords in London are still cursing my luck.”
“You’ve not done that in years. Not since?—”
“Forgive me. Last I looked, I was a grown man of thirty.”
“Who, despite rampant gossip, doesn’t keep a harem of women lounging in the grand salon. If people discover Miss Woolf is staying here, she will have no choice but to leave town.”
Not if I marry her.
The retort burned on Gabriel’s tongue, but he swallowed it. Fate had mocked him once; he would not tempt it again. Miss Bourne had made a public fool of him, and he would not wake to find himself abandoned a second time.
“She needs help,” he said evenly. “She can’t tackle this problem alone. But we’ll wait until she recovers before we make any arrangements on her behalf.”
He understood Gentry’s need to make sense of this debacle. As a rational man, Gabriel should have questioned his own logic, too. But the moment Miss Woolf entered his thoughts, reason deserted him.
As if to prove the point, Miss Woolf moaned softly and shifted in her sleep. The sheet slipped, the thin fabric of her nightgown drawing taut over the gentle rise of her breasts. For a moment, Gabriel felt like the man people claimed him to be—a creature ruled by appetite. Yet this woman stirred something that defied such definition, something that blurred the line between friendship and folly.
Gentry’s voice cut through the silence, sharper than usual. “Tell me you see this isn’t right.”
“Says the man who married his herbalist in my chapel to save her from being sold to the highest bidder.” He crossed to the bed and pulled the sheet higher to cover Miss Woolf’s modesty, his hand steadier than he felt.
The quip left Gentry verbally stumbling. “What are you saying? That you plan to marry Miss Woolf? When did you decide this? Was it when Miss Bourne entered the fray?”
“Be careful. You’re close to crossing a line, and you know how bloody-minded I can be.”
“Fine.” Gentry reached for his black leather case. “Give her barley water and let her sleep. A light broth when she wakes, nothing heavy. Keep her cool, and she’ll regain her strength.” He snapped the brass clasp shut. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
The tension was palpable.
“I’m not a man who keeps score,” Gabriel said. He was a man who valued loyalty above all else. “But I’ve stood by you in your darkest hour, risked my life more than once. I only ask that you trust my judgement now.”
Gentry’s gaze lingered on Miss Woolf before he inclined his head. “Others fear challenging you, but friendship grants me that privilege. Your welfare is, and always will be, my concern.”
The words cooled his temper. “When Miss Woolf wakes, she alone will decide what’s best.”
He was not about to dictate her choices. One man had already made her suffer enough, and he had no intention of doing the same.
“I would encourage her to contact her friends, particularly the countess. Let them know she is safe. They’ve been worried about her the last few days.”
“Certainly. In the meantime, reassure them all is well.”
But all was not well. A man meant to kill her, and Gabriel had no notion why. Her past was a blur, like a view through a misted window. Miss Woolf embodied everything he despised: secrets and evasions. Yet for all she withheld, he was already ensnared.
“There is something you can do for me.” Gabriel felt no shame in asking. “Miss Bourne’s aunt, Mrs Culpepper. Speakto her physician. What’s her prognosis? Is she expected to last the week?”
Gentry eyed him with a calculating expression. “Would you like me to learn more about Miss Bourne? Whether she seeks a reconciliation or something else? If you’re the real reason she’s come home?”
Gabriel’s mouth curved, but there was no humour. She had returned for the same reason she’d left—for money.
